


if all my defenses come down

by girlmarauders



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Breathplay, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Praise Kink, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/pseuds/girlmarauders
Summary: White House Era - Tommy can't help being head over heels for Jon, or his crush on Lovett. A bunch of miscommunication between these overworked idealists eventually gets them together.





	if all my defenses come down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



Most nights, Jon comes back to Tommy’s apartment, when D.C. is dark and quiet. They take the metro, with other sleepless people in crumpled suits. Tommy rolls up his sleeves, and Favs always looks at him when he does it, licking his lips, with warm tired eyes. They are always tired now, and Tommy has never been good at knowing what people want, even when he wasn’t tired every day, so he likes that Favs never leaves him time to get confused. On the metro, surrounded by lobbyists and journalists who would happily eat them alive, Favs watches him, and touches his elbow, his shoulder, musses his hair. They stand, because they’ve been sitting down all day, and it’s easier, to stand close, when the train waves back and forth, and they lean into each other, one hand on the on rail, smiling.

Tommy lives alone right now, in a rickety wooden house. It had felt homey, which is what he had wanted after the endless faceless hotels of the campaign, and he had liked the idea of being alone, because he had never been alone on campaign and it had made him feel shut-in and claustrophobic. It’s quiet, and lonely, which is why Favs always comes to his, because Favs lives in a four bedroom house on the red line, with Dan and Cody, and Alyssa. Tommy goes there all the time, on Friday nights and all day on the weekends, every time they need to prep press releases, every time they want to drink and stay up late shouting at the television.

But when Favs comes by his desk after lunch, he'll say ‘Let's have a beer at yours,” and Tommy will nod, swallow nervously, try to smile. He knows what going to his means.

Tommy unlocks the front door, and goes straight to the kitchen, dropping his satchel on the kitchen table - a spindly-legged linoleum card table pushed up against the wall. Jon puts his bag on the table like always, and Tommy sometimes likes looking at them in the morning, when they have coffee and hastily-eaten cereal, the two fake leather bags sitting next to each other in his kitchen. Jon pulls off his tie and his suit jacket, looking younger every time he takes something off, and sits on one of the cheap plastic chairs Tommy has brought with him from the house they had lived in together in Chicago.

Tommy turns to the fridge.

“Do you want a beer?” he asks.

“Sure,” says Jon, and Tommy takes two bottles from the fridge, and hands them both to Favs, like he's always done since Chicago. Some things come like second nature to them now, so many years of close living, of shared purpose. Jon uses one of the bottles to pop the lid off the other, and the lid goes flying, rocketing into the kitchen sink. There’s lids all over the kitchen; Tony keeps finding them where they’ve rolled under the fridge, or down the side of cupboards. Jon looks up at him, smiling and smug about the smooth college-boy trick he’s been using since he was a freshman.

“Did’ya see that?” he asks, and Tommy laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, and tosses him the bottle opener he keeps next to the fridge for the other bottle. Jon pops the lid and passes him the bottle back. Tommy leans against the kitchen counter and sips his beer, watching Jon take a deep drink, his throat working. They're both still in their work clothes, Tommy with his sleeves rolled halfway up his arms, but he can already feel himself sliding into that place he only ever finds with Jon.

Jon looks up at him, and sets his beer on the card table. He has that dark, intent look he gets only when particularly determined, or speaking in public. He spends his knees, his hands resting on the top of his thighs.

“Come here Tommy,” he says, and Tommy knows that tone of voice too well by now. He nods, and steps forward, putting his beer next to Jon’s. He fits between Jon’s long legs well, and it always feels good to shrug, and follow Jon’s instructions.

 

Jon reaches up and runs the palms of his hands over the tops of Tommy’s arm, his chest, and then tightens them on his hips. He grips hard, making sure Tommy can feel the shape of his fingers through his shirt.

“Take your shirt off Tommy,” he says. Tommy shivers, and starts with the top button. Favs dips his fingers under the waistband of Tommy’s trousers, untucking his shirt. It’s cold, and Tommy shivers, only made warm by the flats of Favs’ hands. Jon ran his hands up the inside of his shirt, reaching up to push the shirt back off his shoulders. Tommy shucks it off, and lets it fall to the floor. Tommy always finds nd his clothes strewn around the house, because Jon can never help it, can only ever wait a few moments until he starts to undress him.

Jon pinches his nipples, not hard but as a promise of things to come,and he smiles when Tommy gasps.

“You look so good Tommy, “ Jon says, and it makes Tommy feel warm all over,and in a strange, wriggling feeling in his stomach, so pleased. Jon pinches his nipples again, harder, and he has to steel himself not to turn away, because it hurts, but he wants to be good for Jon.

“Jon,” he says, and he’s a bit embarrassed at how breathy it is, but then Jon scratches him, catching his fingernails on his abs, making him curl forward. He’s pale, from sitting inside all day, going home after it gets dark, and the scratches rise up in red lines immediately.

Jon unbuttons his trousers one handed, keeping the other scratching lightly at Tommy’s chest. He doesn’t wait for Jon to tell him, because that felt like an age away, and goes to his knees as soon as Jon shoves his own trousers and boxers down far enough for his dick to spring free. Jon puts his hand in his hair, and pulls it hard when he tries to lean forward.

“Tommy,” he says, in a stern voice, making him blush. He wants to look away, but Jon’s grip won’t let him.

“You want it so bad,” Jon says, dark and intent, and Tommy nods, too embarrassed to speak, not sure if Jon will let him, not sure if it was part of the game they were playing. Jon hasn’t told him to stay quiet, but sometimes Jon won’t tell him the rules, because Jon likes to punish him for breaking rules he doesn’t know about, and Tommy always tells himself the curling shame, the failure to live up to what Jon wanted, it’s all part of the game, it’s how Jon wants him to feel when punished. Jon pulls his hair again, and the sharp pain makes Tommy hiss. “You want me to fuck your throat baby, you want that?” Jon asks, and Tommy hears himself whine as if from far away. He’s hard in his pants, and it’s painful and insistent, but in a distant way, only present in the back of his mind.

“C’mon baby,” Jon says sweetly, letting up the pull in Tommy’s hair, scratching encouragingly at the back of his head, and Tommy leans forward at the encouragement, keeping his hands at his sides. He loves sucking Jon’s dick, because it’s enough, enough to make his own body feel far away, not relevant, and to distract him, so he can focus on Jon, on the thick length of him in his mouth, and the noises he makes. He has to concentrate, because Jon never lets him get a rhythm, pulling hard on his hair to hold him tight up against Jon’s pubic hair, so that his dick hits the back of Tommy’s throat and cuts off his breathing. Jon loves to hold him there until just before he chokes, when his throat works with the effort of holding his gag reflex back.

Eventually, it reaches the horrible peak when Tommy can’t hold it back anymore, and he chokes, the horrible rolling sensation of his throat closing against his will. Jon jerks off onto his chest as he gasps for breath, horrible embarrassing red splotches working his way down his chest. Jon feeds him bites of sandwich like that, half dressed on his knees in the kitchen, come drying on his bare chest, while Jon finishes his beer.

Later, in bed, Jon sleeps like he always does, face down on the bed, not touching Tommy, and Tommy feels cold, because he doesn’t have enough sheets, and strange, his head full of white noise. He didn’t sleep well anymore, not since they started working in the White House, which was a lie, he hadn’t slept well since Chicago. At about 4 in the morning, Tommy’s digital clock just flicking over to 3:58, Jon makes a snuffling sound and swing sout one of his stupidly long arms, pulling Tommy in close to him to sleep with his head tucked into the place between him and the bed. Tommy doesn't sleep for long that night, but he fees better, less cold, less afraid, until they had to leave for work.

Jon wakes up before him, and showers, dressing next to the bed, while Tommy lies there, watching him. They don’t kiss or touch in the morning, ever, even though Tommy sometimes thinks Jon wants to. Jon goes in for senior staff before him, which has the added benefit of meaning they arrive a few hours apart, although they’ve never talked about it like that.

“Hey,” Jon says, looking down at him while he pulls on his jeans. Tommy smiles at him, half his face obscured by the pillow, the sheets covering him up to high on his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says back. Jon started to button up his shirt. They both kept spare shirts in their work bags. It wasn’t strange, everyone at work did, for all the days they didn't have the time to go home, all the days Tommy has sat on the floor in Jon’s office working on speeches all night.

Jon sits on the bed to tie his shoes, and Tommy wants to reach out, to trail his fingers down Jon’s side, hook them into his waistband. He doesn't know if he can, he wants Jon to give him instructions, to get that dark-eyed look and tell him where to put his hands.

Jon isn't like that in the mornings, and they don’t touch in the mornings. Tommy feels the loss of it deeply, always unexpectedly, like a hollow, sinking feeling in his stomach. 

After Jon leaves, he showers, and dresses, and eats a piece of toast over the sink so he doesn’t have to use a plate. On the metro, jostled by PR managers and lobbyists in nicer suits than his, he scribbles notes on his thoughts for the next briefings. And then, like every day, work hits him like a brick wall. He sees Jon at lunch, for 15 minutes when they snarf cafeteria salads, talking with their mouths full, and then they’re both fire-fighting all day, in meetings and on calls. Jon has been his best friend since they both got their dream jobs working for the senator - now they have their dream jobs working for the president, but it’s scary, sad sometimes, that they hardly see each other.

At 5.30, Tommy finally sends the draft of the briefing headlines for the next couple of days to Robb, and breathes. He has some more drafts to finish, emails to answer, a million briefing papers to read and annotate. Dan is on his ass about subject notes for the president’s next overseas trip, but that’s only “Urgent” not “Very Urgent” so it’s low down his list. He gives himself permission to walk to the cafeteria and get a coke from the vending machine. People eat at weird times in the white house, so the canteen is empty, and he’s the only one there, waiting for his coke to drop when Jon finds him.

“Hey,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the vending machine, his body blocking the bottom drawer.

Tommy smiles at him, his stomach fluttering at Jon leaning over him, the cut of his shirt which makes him look broader in the shoulder than he is. Neither of them work out enough, both of them too overworked and tired to be in shape, but Jon is naturally thin, and it always looks good on him. Jon is attractive, and handsome, and Tommy has always thought that. He was crazy over him in Chicago, in love with Jon and the idea of Jon and mad with wanting him. That feeling hasn’t faded much. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he holds tight to having Jon now, this strange togetherness they have. He tries to know himself as best he can, know his weaknesses, and he knows he’ll follow Jon anywhere.

“What’s up,” he says, stepping into Jon’s personal space, only inches from Jon’s neck. They try to keep it out of work, but they’re tired, they’re always tired, and Tommy always wants Jon. He puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, but it’s high enough that his thumb brushes at Tommy’s neck.

“I’m good.” Favs says easily, looking at Tommy sideways, kind of coyly, like they’re flirting. “Looking forward to having a beer later.”

“Yeah?” Tommy asks, feeling a bit breathless. Jon’s thumb presses hard at his neck, promising something for the future. He nods.

“Yeah,” Jon says in a tense whisper. “I think about it, about you, during the day. About what I’m going to do to you.”

Tommy nods stupidly, loving the feel of Jon’s hand on his neck. He wants Jon to hold him down. Down the hall, a door bangs open and they spring apart, one of the policy guys coming through the door to the cafeteria a second later. They’ve recovered by then, and Tommy is pulling his coke out of the vending machine, and Jon has his arms crossed, a respectable amount of distance between them.

Tommy takes a sip of his coke, his heart pounding. The headlines would be the worst, if they got caught, “Top Obama Aides In Sex Scandal” maybe, and his feels his stomach roll over with the shame.

The guy from policy, Mark maybe, or Andrew, nods at them, and Jon nods back. He gets his drink, and when he leaves, Jon reaches out and touches his elbow gently. His mouth is twisted a little, and he looks sad.

“Sorry,” he says, in his normal voice, the one he uses when they're arguing about policy, or speeches, or types of beer. He looks - Tommy hates disappointing Jon. He shakes his head.

“It's okay.” he says quietly, and Jon smiles at him, which makes him want to say more. “I like it.”

“Great,” he says, and even at that faint praise Tommy wants to get on his knees for him. “I'll see you tonight.”

Tommy works late, waiting for Jon to finish. They keep him late in senior staff, and Tommy stays, working on the subject notes for Dan, until Jon finishes. The sun’s already set, and the metro stop is cold and windy, so they stand close, their noses nearly touching, hands jammed in their pockets. He wants to kiss Jon, wants to touch him, shove his cold hands up inside Jon’s shirt and feel him. He wants to be Jon’s boyfriend, but he doesn’t know how to ask. He wants Jon to hurt him, to punish him for something, to tell him that he’s good.

It’s Friday, and Jon doesn’t stop for a beer on the way of walking Tommy to the bedroom, a strong hand on his bicep, steering him. Jon kisses hungrily, pushy. They don’t even make it to the bedroom before he pushes Tommy up against a wall. He holds Tommy’s face in his hands, and it feels sweet, gentle, but his thumbs are tucked into the side of his neck, under his chin, a constant pressure. Jon presses his whole long body against him, kissing him, holding him against the wall, and Tommy just lets him, just takes the kisses, the intensity of it.

“Fuck,” Jon says, breaking to catch his breath. He rolls his hips against Tommy, and Tommy, embarrassed but loving it, gasps. “Yeah, baby, you want it?” he says darkly, pushing against him again, and Tommy can’t answer that, he can only make a small sound in his throat, knows Jon hears him. In the dark of the hallway, he can only just see Jon’s smile. “Tell me you want it baby.” Jon says. He’s not asking anymore.

Tommy nods, panting.

“I want it.” he says quietly. Jon hums at that, not quite a moan, tightens his hands on Tommy’s throat, kisses his collarbone.

“What do you want?” he asks. Tommy’s so hard, and he wants every inch of Jon on top of him, inside him.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says. Jon groans properly at that, squeezing at his throat. It makes Tommy crazy, to think about Jon fucking him while tightening his hands on his throat, struggling to breathe while Jon does what he wants. God, he’s so fucked up.

Jon grabs him by the hips and turns him, pushes him through the door into his bedroom.

“Get undressed,” he says quickly, and Tommy starts on the buttons of his shirt. The door closes, and Jon is stripping off quickly, pushing his pants down his legs, and only managing a few buttons before he pulls the shirt off over his head. He’s so hot, and Tommy feels silly, still fumbling at his shirt buttons. Jon is so out of his league.

Jon, fully undressed except for his boxers, looks up at Tommy. He licks his lips, and then grabs Tommy by the arm, pulling him in towards him, apparently never even thinking that he'd resist.

“I said, get undressed,” Jon says again, and he doesn't sound angry, just intense, but Tommy wants that, Jon’s laser focus on what he wants. He nods, and manages to get the last button open on his shirt, stripping out of it quickly and dropping it on the floor.

“Yeah baby,” Jon says, tweaking his nipple even as he undoes his pants and shoves them down, kicking out of them. Jon sits on the bed, grabbing at Tommy’s hips and pulling him closer. He kisses his hip, scratching with his teeth. Jon leans back, and Tommy crawls forward, over him. He always feels exposed on top, like he’s supposed to be doing more than whatever it is he’s doing, which is just kissing Jon, because Jon’s endlessly attractive and Tommy’s head over heels for him.

Jon arches into the kiss, grabs at Tommy’s shoulders and rolls them in one smooth move. Being under Jon feels better, and when Jon bites at his collarbone he groans. It feels good when Jon strips him of his boxers, and slowly, carefully stretches Tommy out. Jon’s cruel to him when they fuck sometimes, but he’s always careful with Tommy, and it’s exhilarating to have Jon inside him, stretching him with his long fingers. He spreads his legs and moans, rolling his hips into the pressure, hearing his own breath hitch when Jon scratches at him with his free hand.

“Fuck,” he says when Jon spreads his fingers, hearing the shake in his voice. Jon kisses his knee.

“Wait here baby,” Jon says quietly. Tommy feels empty, bereft, without him there, but he returns a moment late, crawling over Tommy and pushing his legs up. Tommy takes a deep breath, and when Jon pushes into him, it’s a slow, inexorable, intoxicating burn. Jon holds himself still, breathing deeply and carefully, smiling down at him. It feels amazing, addictively good, but it’s not enough, not enough to quiet his rushing mind.

“Jon, please,” he gasps, and reaches for him with a clammy hand. Jon smiles at him, even as he rolls his hips, and the smile is the best part, it makes every bit of pleasure feel worth it, he made Jon smile.

“I've got you baby,” Jon says, thrusting deeper and it feels intense, amazing, and then Jon moves his hand from the back of Tommy’s leg to his throat, his grip closing softly but ominously, making it hard to breathe. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed, and all he can feel is Jon inside him, and the struggle to breathe, the sound of his own hoarse gasping breaths, and Jon flexes his hand, constricting and freeing Tommy’s breathing, which builds to a fine, painful point, like cresting a horrible, glorious wave.

He comes choking, struggling for breath against the pressure of Jon’s grip, until Jon suddenly lets go, grips his legs and thrusts, hard, only a few times before he shudders and comes as well

“God, Tommy, that was so hot,” he says, flopping down next to him, once he had carefully pulled out and dropped the condom in the basket next to Tommy’s bed. One of his arms lies over of Tommy’s chest, his hand tracing swirling patterns, his face smushed into the pillow.

Tommy’s throat hurts. He hopes it doesn't bruise, because that will be hard to explain. Jon raises his head and kisses the closest part, the curve of his bicep, and Tommy feels better, less like he's being watched.

“Go to sleep Tommy,” Jon says quietly, tucking his face against Tommy’s arm.

It's been days since he slept properly, and he's sure that in a few hours the horrible clockwork of his brain will start up again, but aching still, and with Jon lying next to him, it feels easy to close his eyes and fall, easily, into a dreamless sleep.

&&&

The timing doesn't work out for Jon or Tommy for months after that - they see each other all the time, they eat lunch together every day, but now they eat it standing up in each others offices, arguing about strategy. They're both overworked, and there's never enough time. That’s what Tommy tells himself anyway. There’s a few nights Tommy watches Jon go home before him without stopping by his desk, and he ignores how it makes him feel and finishes another briefing paper. In the evenings, Jon will look at him sideways at his desk, as if he’s thinking about asking, but he’ll always turn away, go back to work. 

Jon has him skim a few resumes for the new speechwriter, to try and relieve some of the neverending pressure. Tommy's doubtful. They could have a million speechwriters, and Tommy will always feel that he has not done enough, that he is not deserving of this amazing, spectacular opportunity. Jon will always work himself half to death, because they both are true believers, at heart, both grateful for this chance.

The resumes look fine. A handful of people they know from the campaign, although not well, some Democratic standards, and Jon Lovett, who wrote for Clinton, which surprises him. Tommy's got a faint memory of someone who might be him, young and funny, kinda cute, and he stars that resume, because it's a strong application, the writing samples are the best, and Jon needs someone to make him laugh.

Lovett starts a few weeks later, and when Tommy gets introduced, Lovett remembers his name, shakes his hand, makes a joke that makes Jon smile, and Tommy knows it was the right decision. Tommy's worked for weeks to get one of Jon’s dumb movie-star smiles, and this guy gets it in moments.

Lovett is easy to get along with. He's smart, and better than that, whip-quick with a joke. The rest of their loose crew of writers and strategists and policy wonks love him, and he's quickly invited to every weekend house party, and the late nights they spend in Jon’s office, eating chinese food and working. Tommy likes him, and feels strange, mixed-up, about laughing at his jokes, always nearly overcome with a wish to touch him.

Dan decides to have a house party, just all of them at his drinking on a weekend, because something passed the House; it’s domestic policy, so it’s not in Tommy’s scope right now, but he’ll go celebrate. They all deserve a win.

On Friday, the three of them, him and Jon and Lovett, order Chinese food to the office, because Jon always gets held late at senior staff, and he and Lovett are working on their own stuff, and they won't have time to eat before the party. Tommy sits on the floor in Jon’s office, since it's the nicest, and Lovett sits on Jon’s desk, swinging his legs, eating his chow mein one handed, scribbling on loose leaf paper with the other hand, and talking the whole time.

“Jesus, Tommy, I can’t believe I left comedy for this extremely heterosexual office in order to write environmental policy speeches.” Jon says, around a mouthful of noodles. Tommy eats some of his egg fried rice, and thinks while he chews. There are a lot of potential responses to that. Firstly, that Lovett definitely does believe that he left whatever he was doing in New York because this is a chance to write for the president, for this president, and he believes that Lovett knows what that means.

He looks up at Lovett, who is writing again, not waiting for Tommy to answer, his curly hair falling onto his forehead. He bites his lip when he writes, and Tommy doesn’t think he realises, which makes it feel like a secret that only he knows.

“It’s not that heterosexual,” he says mildly, for the thrill of saying it, and the surprise he knows it’ll be. Lovett looks up quickly,

“What?” he says, “wait, really?”

Tommy thinks he knows what he’s asking, and he feels suddenly like he’s signed up for something he wasn’t aware of, not sure if he means it, if he wants people to know that he means it. It had felt fine before he said it, thrilling, but now, now he’s regretting it. He hasn’t told his parents; he wonders if he ever will. He has a horrible rushing second where he thinks that Jon doesn’t know, but of course Jon knows, that’s the whole point. Jon’s the only one who knows, the only boy he’s kissed, drunk and afraid. They’ve never talked about it. They’ve never said anything about it out loud.

Lovett’s put his pen down, and he’s looking at Tommy softly, carefully. Tommy’s never been able to do that; go from funny to serious, and mean both equally.

“It’s okay Tommy,” Lovett says gently. “I get it.”

Tommy shrugs, and looks down, feeling embarrassed and unsure. He wanted Lovett to think he was brave, that he was put together and on top of things, that he knew what he was doing. He wants Lovett to think those things about him, but, in practice, it seems to work out differently. He’s about to try to make a joke, pass it off and turn Lovett’s pitying gaze away from him, when Jon walks into his office backwards. He’s carrying two of the box files that are the bane of Tommy’s life, and seem to pile up on his desk entirely without his knowledge, and more binders on top. Jon kicks the door closed behind him, and drops the files on his desk behind Lovett.

“Give me a few minutes, and then we can go,” he says, breaking the moment, and Tommy nods, taking a large forkful of rice.

Jon drives them to the party, and Tommy knows he’s quiet in the car, but Lovett makes up for him. He appreciates it, Lovett’s sideways glances letting him know that Lovett is covering for him on purpose, but he starts drinking as soon as they arrive, wanting to avoid any potential conversations about it Lovett wants to have. He drinks vodka with just enough Sprite to cover it, and talks to the people he knows, the foreign policy wonks, and Dan, and the interns. Logically, he knows they’re only a few years younger than him, but they seem impossibly younger, further away from him in experience and knowledge than they can imagine.

Without meaning to, he constantly gets pulled back into conversation with Jon and Lovett. He’ll realise it’s just the three of them again, play arguing about policy, or Lovett’s favorite candy bar, and delicately try and extricate himself, go and find a drink, or someone else to talk to, but, twenty minutes later, the three of them are clustered together, Lovett sitting on the kitchen island showing them grindr messages on his phone and saying “No, no, no you have to believe me, these are completely real!”

Lovett does a dramatic reading of them, creasing in laughter in between his lines, the edges of his eyes lined with the effort of laughing. It’s infectious, and Tommy laughs, because he’s drunk, and Lovett is hilarious, and beautiful.

Dan comes by, and grabs Jon by the shoulder, pulling him away to settle an argument, still laughing. Tommy looks up at Lovett, flushed from drinking and shouting, his hair a mess where he’s run his hands through it.

“Tommy,” Lovett says, quietly. The party is loud in the other room, but it’s just them in the kitchen, and Tommy feels the very good kind of drunk he had hoped to get: floaty and happy, easy-going. Lovett reaches out and touches Tommy’s cheek, puts his whole hand across that side of Tommy’s face. He’s so happy Lovett made the first move because it makes it all so much easier, and saves him from the constant waiting, knowing something would happen eventually but not sure when. He turns his head and kisses Lovett’s palm, tries to wait patiently for his reaction. Lovett looks stricken, like he’s in pain, and it almost makes Tommy pull away, his stomach swooping in fear that he’s made a terrible mistake, before Lovett pulls his hand away and ducks down quickly to give him a quick, dry kiss.

“Sorry,” Lovett says, and Tommy doesn’t know what he’s sorry for, wants Lovett to kiss him again, properly, maybe put his hand back on his face. “I didn’t want to be drunk when we did this.”

“I’m okay,” Tommy says, because he is, and he doesn’t mind. Lovett shakes his head.

“I know, but...let’s get a drink sometime. Properly. Next weekend?” He says, and reaches out again to brush Tommy’s cheek with his thumb, like he can’t stop himself. Tommy nods.

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s do that.” he says, and then, feeling bold. “You should kiss me again.”

Lovett rolls his eyes, but in a fond, friendly kind of way, the way he rolls his eyes all the time.

“I should have known you’d be a pushy bottom,” he says, jokingly, but it gives Tommy a little thrill, to be called that, like Lovett is promising future things, and he pushes up closer to the kitchen island, between Lovett’s thighs, and raises his chin, waiting. Lovett smiles at him, leans in closer, and slides their mouths together, carefully but certainly, a determinedly good kiss that makes Tommy lean into it, and groan, because he’s drunk and everything physical feels good.

“God, you’re so stupidly hot.” Lovett says, when they pull apart. Tommy feels himself flush all over. “And I am such an amazing person not taking you home right now.” Lovett says, which makes Tommy nod furiously, and Lovett laugh.

Later, Lovett makes him take a cab home with him, and Lovett leaves his hand on his knee until they reach Tommy’s house, and Lovett pushes him out of the cab. He’s drunk enough that the memory of Jon watching them leave, his strange, pained expression, falls right out of his head.

“Have a glass of water and go to sleep Tommy,” Lovett says, from inside the cab. Tommy drinks his water in his tiny kitchen, knowing Lovett would be proud of him, and then crawls under his comforter and falls immediately asleep.

&&&

Dating Lovett takes Tommy by surprise. They go for a drink, and Tommy wants to get taken home, expects it even. Instead, they make out on Tommy’s couch until they’re both really worked up, and Lovett is flushed and panting, before Lovett makes him go to bed and leave Lovett to take a cab. They kiss in the hallway, and on Tommy’s front steps, until Lovett’s cab honks at him angrily and Lovett, laughing, has to pull away.

Tommy’s sleeping better. Maybe it’s work; the president is away and the press core went with him. Maybe it’s that Lovett texts him every night at 10, telling him to go to sleep, and keeps texting him until he says he’s in bed, until he says he’s going to sleep. They go for more drinks, and then stop going for drinks in order to hang out at Tommy’s house sober, shouting at the television, Lovett doing voices in increasingly inane bits.

That weekend, there’s no party, or get-together, and everyone says they’re going to be adults, catch up on their reading, or sleep. Lovett comes by Tommy’s desk at the end of the day, his hair tucked away under one of his stupid hats, and Tommy’s heart jumps. It’s exciting, knowing that Lovett likes him, that Lovett thinks he’s attractive.

Jon sticks his head out of his office, but makes a face when he sees Lovett, and retreats, so Tommy ignores it. Jon’ll tell him what it is later.

“Hey,” he says, and Lovett smiles back at him

“Hey,” Lovett says. “You wanna come to mine later? We can watch a movie.”

Tommy looks at him, squinting a little bit.

“Your place doesn’t have a living room.” he says. Lovett shrugs.

“Fine, it doesn’t have to be mine. We can hang out at yours.”

Tommy shrugs, but he’s smiling.

“Come and get me when you leave,” he says, “we can take the metro.”

&&&

Taking the metro with Lovett gives Tommy a crick in his neck from always looking down at Lovett’s face, waiting for the punchline of a joke or a bit he’s doing. There’s not a moment Tommy wants to look away.

“Stop staring at me you big creep,” Lovett says quietly, when they're the only people on the metro car, standing too close in the vestibule. He says it in a tone of voice that makes it pretty clear he doesn’t want Tommy to stop.

“I like looking at you” he says, and Lovett flushes red, his nose red from the D.C. cold, and he makes a “psssh” sound. Tommy grabs the handrail above his head and lets himself lean forward, hang nearly over Lovett and kiss him quickly, to interrupt him, and because he looked like he wanted to be kissed.

They kiss like that, stupidly, back and forth, smiling at each other, until Tommy’s metro stop, and then they run through the cold, falling through Tommy’s door in each others arms. It’s Lovett who’s pushy, toeing off his shoes, and poking at Tommy until he does it as well, and then pulling Tommy onto the couch.

They make out like that, Lovett in Tommy’s lap, until they’re both turned on and sweating, trying to find friction through their clothes. Tommy’s waiting for Lovett to tell him when to stop, because it’s been him in the lead every other time, dragging them apart. This time he grabs Tommy by the shoulder and pushes up him to standing, and shoving him towards the bedroom.

“Up, up, up,” Lovett chants, when he’s slow to move, and drags him by his wrist to the bedroom. They kiss in between getting undressed, pausing to pull off their socks, and then Lovett shoves Tommy onto his back on the bed and crawls on top of him, completely naked. Tommy’s brain stutters for a moment, because Lovett is completely naked, and this, just like Lovett always does, has gone from zero to sixty in moments, because he’s made some decision in his head and now Tommy is along for the ride.

“I want you to fuck me,” Lovett says, through lowered eyelashes. Tommy knows he’s doing it because he thinks it looks hot, but Tommy has totally fallen for it, because it is hot, and Lovett wants him to fuck him. He sits up and presses his nose to Lovett’s neck, kisses his collarbone, tries to breathe enough to calm down.

“I’ve...I’ve never done it that way before,” he says quietly. Lovett groans and pushes him back onto the bed.

“God, that’s so hot Tommy,” he says, kissing his chest and shoulders, and then, kissing him properly, hot and wet.

Lovett slicks his fingers up, and Tommy watches like an idiot, doesn’t even try to help when Lovett gasps, just keeps his hands on his hips as he feels Lovett’s hips roll.

“Fuck,” Lovett says, the roll of his hips more insistent now, “You better get a condom.”

Tommy fumbles the condom on the first try, but then he gets it and before he can catch his breath, Lovett is sinking down around him, slowly but inexorably. He knows he’s gripping Lovett’s hips too tightly, but it’s the only thing stopping him from losing it suddenly. Lovett is hot and tight around him, and it feels impossibly, dangerously good.

Lovett lifts himself and falls back, his thighs working, over and over again, Tommy trying to encourage him along by running his hands over his chest, his nipples, the planes of his shoulders when he can reach. He can’t help himself thrusting up to meet each of Lovett’s movements, every tiny bit of friction lighting him up, bringing him closer and closer.

“I’m, I’m not going to last,” he gasps, grasping at Lovett’s shoulder, feeling pained that this has to end but unable to stop himself, the feeling of being inside Lovett too much all at once. He just nods, and falls forward to hold himself up on one hand, curling a fist around his dick, stroking himself quickly.

“God,” Lovett says breathily, “Tommy you’re so good.”

Fuck. He shudders all over, and in a second crests the wave of the feeling of Lovett around him, curling upwards as he comes.

“Fuck, Tommy, you like that don’t you? When I say you’re good.” he says, hand still working on his dick. He nodded over and over again. He wanted Lovett to know he liked it, that he was good, but he was still riding the high, now growing more and more sensitive every moment.

Lovett makes a horrible choking noise as he comes all over his hand, but Tommy doesn’t care, because it feels amazing, and Lovett, flushed all over, bent over and panting, is beautiful.

&&&

In the morning, Tommy wakes up gradually to the new feeling of Lovett’s fingers brushing through his hair, his nose pushed up against Lovett’s thigh where he’s sat up in bed.

“Hey,” he says, rolling over to look up at him. Lovett looks down at him fondly.

“Hey,” he says back, grinning. “Welcome to the land of the living.”

Tommy hums, turning his head to arch into Lovett’s fingers scratching at his scalp.

“You tired me out,” he says.

Lovett snorts.

“Hey, I did all the work!” he says, affronted. It’s always clear when Lovett is joking, or, at least, Tommy thinks it’s always clear, and it makes him feel safer, less worried about saying the wrong thing.

Lovett keeps running his fingers through his hair, and Tommy feels like he might doze off again, the first true potential for a long sleep in what feels like years, until Lovett’s fingers stop moving. He looks up at him.

“What’s up?” he asks. Lovett sighs.

“When you said you hadn’t done it that way, did you mean with a man?” he asks, quietly.

“No,” Tommy says, after a long pause. “You didn’t take my gay virginity.”

Lovett hums and starts running his fingers through Tommy’s hair again.

“Virginity is a dumb concept.” he says, apparently without a clear point in mind.

Tommy’s brain is going again, and he realises he won’t sleep again, even warm and comfortable and lying against Lovett’s thigh. He doesn’t want to fuck this up, even a little bit. Lovett deserves the best.

“Can I ask who with? Is it someone I know?”

Tommy knows that Lovett already knows the answer to that. Tommy’s a career Democract. He’s a workaholic. He’s never had any other job. Of course it’s someone they know. There isn’t anyone else for it to be.

“Jon,” he says. He wants to roll away and turn his back, but forces himself to stay still, his head still resting on Lovett’s thigh, his fingers at the nape of his neck. He feels… embarrassed, exposed. He hates it, feeling uncertain, not knowing what to do. “It was Jon.”

“Wait, really?” Lovett says, sounding surprised, and Tommy, unable to deal with the anxiety of not knowing his reaction, rolls his head to look up at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “In Chicago, and then, after, for a while.”

“Wow,” Lovett says. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Geez, Tommy,” Lovett says. “Give me a minute, all my fantasies from the campaign just came and smacked me in the back of the head.”

Tommy sits up at that.

“Don’t give me that look,” Lovett says, poking him in the cheek. “Jon has his whole ‘charismatic hope and change’ thing and you’re super hot. I’d have be a saint not to have thought about the two of you.”

Tommy loves the way Lovett talks about him, casually, as if it’s so obvious how hot Tommy is, like Lovett knows that without having to think about it.

“You thought about me?” he asks, blushing.

“Yeah, god, of course I did,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You and Jon were everyone’s eye-candy on campaign. Of course I was thinking about you guys.”

“Both of us?” Tommy asks.

Lovett leans over to kiss him, and it makes Tommy feel a bit better, the way Lovett does it easily, without thinking. He wants Lovett to have everything he wants.

“Yeah,” Lovett says, shrugging, but Tommy can see his blush spreading down his chest.

“You like that, don’t you?” Tommy asks, wriggling into Lovett’s lap, Lovett’s hands going easily around his waist. “The two of us?”

Lovett squirms under him, which makes Tommy grin and lean down to kiss him, and makes Lovett grab him and pull him closer. They kiss like that for a while, enough that Tommy can feel Lovett getting hard and he feels breathless. Lovett brushes his hand over Tommy’s cheekbone when they pull apart.

“God, you’re always full of surprises.” he says, and Tommy smiles shyly. He likes surprising Lovett, likes the idea that he makes Lovett turned on and breathless.

&&&

Tommy’s had three vodkas, two of them when Lovett wasn’t looking, when he opens the door to Jon.

Jon’s standing on the front step, nervously shifting his weight, holding his work satchel in one hand. He smiles at Tommy, but it looks forced and nervous.

“Hey,” Tommy says and swallows. Jon watches his throat. “Come on in.”

Jon dumps his bag in the hallway, and all Tommy can think about is the image he has lasered into his brain; their satchels against each other on his crappy kitchen table, being on his knees for Jon on the linoleum. Wanting Jon always hits him unexpected, like a punch to the stomach, and he’s never been able to stop it.

Lovett is sitting cross-legged on the couch, holding a beer, because he wasn’t as nervous as Tommy, and didn’t need three fingers of straight vodka to stop being nervous. He knows Lovett is excited - Tommy’s agreed to enact one of his fantasies, why wouldn’t he be? - and Tommy forces himself to tamp down the nerves, the need to ask Lovett if it’s okay that he wants Jon to fuck him, wants Jon to tell him what to do.

“Do you want a beer?” Lovett asks. Jon nods. “Tommy?”

“Yeah, sure.” he says, and Lovett takes out two from behind the sofa. Tommy tries to see what Jon’s seeing, Tommy’s living room where they hardly ever spent any time, Lovett’s stuff slowly spreading across the surfaces. He hardly ever sleeps at his place now. Tommy’s is nicer, and it has all his stuff now, and Tommy likes sleeping next to Lovett, who isn’t quiet, who cuddles Tommy aggressively. He’s missed Jon, missed the two of them taking the metro after work, and Jon’s stupid college trick with the beer tops. He doesn’t know if that shows, if he should have shown that, if Jon deserved to know that.

Lovett’s got a bottle-opener, but Tommy takes the two bottles and hands them both to Jon. He looks at them and then smiles at Tommy, really and properly, that dumb, charming Hollywood smile he has. He pops one of the lids off with the other, and passes one of the bottles to Tommy.

“Wow,” Lovett says dryly from the couch. “Does that work on all the ladies?”

Jon laughs a little and shrugs, looking sideways at Tommy.

“It worked on Tommy.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, but can’t argue. The thing is, it had worked on Tommy, all the time ago in Chicago. Jon had been smooth, and handsome, and Tommy had been terrified out of his mind, and tired all the time, and, like always, he had been in love with Jon. Lovett is new and exciting, but Tommy likes to think he knows a good thing when he sees it. But. He’ll always be in love with Jon.

Jon sips his beer once, mechanically, and then puts it down on the coffee table.

“Fuck this, Tommy, come here.” he says, reaching out, and Tommy goes easily, lets himself be kissed. He doesn’t have to look down to kiss Jon, but Jon cups his chin anyway, bites his lip gently.

Lovett stands up from the couch, leaving his beer behind.

“That is really hot,” he says, “and we should relocate to the bedroom immediately, before I do something stupid, like try to tip one of you.”

Jon make a face at that, like he’s trying not to laugh.

Lovett takes his shirt off on the way to the door, pulling it over his head, and then stopping and looking over his shoulder.

“Guys,” he says impatiently. “We went to all the trouble of organising a threesome. Let's not ruin it by making it awkward.”

Things feel easier when he’s naked, which Tommy was not expecting. Lovett and Jon, together, are both the hottest people Tommy knew, and his brain shuts up for a peaceful twenty seconds while he processes both of them undressing.

They circle around one another, watching but not touching, and Tommy wants to have that focused on him, wants the electric feeling of being under their gaze. The idea of it has him hard and tingling with anticipation.

Lovett’s the most undressed and he sits on the bed, making grabby hands at Tommy wordlessly, pulling Tommy in by the back of his thigh when he gets close enough.

“Get down here and kiss me, you giant monster,” Lovett says fondly, so Tommy bends nearly in half to kiss him hungrily, Lovett grabbing his shoulder to lick into his mouth, pushy and amazing and making Tommy gasp easily.

After a long kiss that makes Tommy remember every frustrating make out session from their first dates, Lovett pinches the back of his thigh, and grins at him when it makes Tommy jump.

“I’m fine,” he says, still grinning and leaning back on his elbows. “Go kiss Jon.”

Jon’s lying on the comforter completely naked, and hard, and it’s so incredibly dumb how hot Jon is, how Tommy is always stupidly turned on by him, but he crawls across the bed to sit on his thighs and let Jon scratch him gently on the chest, and thighs.

“You’re so good baby,” Jon says, and he’s already spread lube all over his fingers while Tommy was distracted, his fingers pressing gently at his rim. He lifts up, his thighs shaking a little with the effort, and Jon pushes one finger in quickly, the burn enough to make Tommy groan loudly, and then feel self-conscious about the noise.

Jon adds another finger before he can think too hard about what he sounds like, and then Tommy can’t think about anything else, just the stretch of Jon’s long fingers, the pressure and slide, his hips moving without his control, trying to get more of Jon’s fingers inside him.

“Baby,” Jon says gently, removing his fingers, and Tommy knows he wants Tommy to ride him, but he doesn’t want to be exposed, to keep havings his worries burst in the back of his brain like bubbles.

He rolls over, falling onto the bed on his back, and tugs at Jon’s shoulder, trying to bring him with him.

Jon kisses his throat while he rolls on the condom and pushes Tommy’s legs back to push slowly and perfectly into him. He only waits a moment for him to adjust before pulling back and pushing in, the stretch and friction making Tommy throw his head back, groan low and loud.

“Keep your leg up, “ Jon says through gritted teeth, and Tommy nods desperately, his thigh shaking with the effort, as Jon lets go, and thrusts deeper, making Tommy choke on his inhale.

Lovett is watching them, and that thought keeps circling in his brain, over and over, that Lovett is watching him be fucked by Jon, and it’s the hottest thing that ever happened to him, knowing that Lovett is jerking himself off in the same room, turned on by just looking at them. He’s had enough sex with Lovett that he knows the sounds he makes during sex, and he can’t see him, but he can hear the breathy sounds that means he’s about to come.

“Fuck, Jon,” he says, and it doesn’t matter who he means, but he knows what Favs had wanted to do to him when he took his hand away from his leg, and he meets his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask, Jon knows every one of his fucked-up wishes, all the strange things he wants. Jon fingers close around his throat in the sweetest pressure, and everything lines up perfectly for a sudden second and when his next breath is pained and short, his orgasm goes through him like a sudden shock.

“Jesus, Tommy,” Jon says, and groans, tucking his face against Tommy’s neck and using all his weight to fuck into him harder, the pressure almost too much for Tommy, Jon’s fingers flexing around his throat, until Jon groans loudly and comes, shuddering all over.

Tommy winces as Jon pulls out, and tries to stretch out the pain in his legs. Jon steps into the bathroom, and Tommy rolls over to look at Lovett, feeling strange, somewhere between satisfied and sad.

Lovett is smiling, and Tommy smiles back at him, watching everything from far away. Lovett has the weird-looking splotchy blush across his chest he always gets after he comes, and he’s only just wiped his hand on the side of the bed, where he pretends Tommy can’t see the stains, like he’s done every time they’ve come home exhausted and jerked each other off before falling asleep. It’s such a familiar movement that Tommy laughs, just for a second, and Lovett looks at him with his eyebrows raised.

“What, you wierdo?” he says, and crawls closer to give him a kiss.

The door to the bathroom clicks, and there’s a moment when Tommy knows Jon is watching them kiss, the happy, satisfied part of his brain helping him imagine a Jon that finds it as hot and Lovett finds the idea of him with Jon. Maybe, maybe, this is what Jon needed to stay, to touch Tommy afterwards, to say anything about what they were doing. Someone else that Tommy loved, and who cuddled Tommy back, so Jon didn’t have to, so Jon didn’t feel like Tommy was clinging too tightly.

Tommy breaks away from kissing Lovett to roll over, smiling, at the idea that Jon could kiss him now, and reality hits him like a crashing wave, fracturing the fantasy suddenly. Jon looks pained, his mouth drawn in a hard angry line, and he’s fully dressed, his shirt already buttoned again.

Everything he’s been holding down, the nerves from earlier and the horrible feeling of being unwanted, rejected in the strangest, backwards way, the anxiety of every difficult week over the last impossible year, bubbles up in his chest and pushes up against his throat painfully, making it hard to breathe, and his eyes burning hot, big tears welling at the corners all of a sudden.

He scrabbles up to sitting, not sure where he’s going or what’s he’s done, but not able to be lying down, struggling to breathe. He can't believe he's crying, it's so dumb and Lovett will be scared, and Jon will think he's stupid and weak, and not able to take it, but he's sobbing, huffing in huge breaths of air between sobs, tears in his eyes. He covers his face with his hands, and wishes they couldn't see him. His throat hurts, from where Jon had held him earlier, and he can't breathe, he's so stupid he can't even get fucked by the hottest guy he knows without crying like a weirdo.

“Woah,” Jon says, in the comforting, concerned way he has, and it makes Tommy feel horrible, knowing people are watching him, making him try to curl inwards, rounding his shoulders. “Woah,” Jon says again, grabbing his shoulders and stopping him rolling away, “Tommy.”

“What,” Tommy says meanly, trying to push Jon’s hands away. He hates people seeing him cry, and he hates Jon seeing him cry, and he wishes he could make it stop, could just turn it off and act normal and not fucking cry.

“Tommy, it’s okay,” Jon says, still in his concerned voice, the mattress bending when he sits down. “What’s wrong?”

Tommy pushes his hands away for one last time and then rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets hard, pushing away tears, and then letting his hands drop. As soon as he opens his eyes properly, he sees Lovett reach for his hand and grabs on tightly. Lovett looks freaked out, but he has that stubborn curve between his eyebrows. At least Lovett isn’t going anywhere.

“You’re fucking off again,” Tommy says angrily, finally, after all this time of just taking it, angry with himself and angry with Jon, and just, tired and frustrated.

“Wait, what?” Jon asks, and he doesn’t look upset or angry anymore, just confused. “Tommy, I thought you wanted me to leave.”

“You always left first,” Tommy says, glaring at him, trying to hold onto the anger. “You never wanted to stay, or talk about it, or say anything.”

“Tommy, I…” Jon says, and he sounds genuinely surprised, knocked back on his heels. “I always, I alway wanted to stay. You’re amazing. But, you,” he gestures around, including Lovett in the flick of his hands. “You’ve got this gorgeous boyfriend, and you’re, you’re so wonderful. I never thought you’d want me to be...anything.”

Lovett lets go of Tommy long enough to put his hands in the air.

“Woah, don’t blame me. This is all you guys,” he says.

“Please stay.” Tommy says, around a teary hiccup, feeling pathetic but not caring. He’ll be pathetic if it stops Jon leaving, if it gets him both of them. “Both of you.”

Lovett puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and grips tightly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and Tommy feels like he only lets out half a breath. Jon runs a nervous hand over his hair, and looks, for one of the few times Tommy’s known him, genuinely caught off guard.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says honestly. Tommy shrugs.

“Me neither,” he says. Lovett smiles.

“I hate to break it to you guys, but no one ever does.” He moves more up the bed to put an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, and reaches out to poke Jon gently in the bicep. “Take your shirt off Favreau, and let’s go to sleep. You guys can do negotiation in the morning.”

“Negotiation?” Jon asks, but he’s already unbuttoning his shirt. Lovett pulls Tommy down on the bed and tucks his face into Tommy’s arm.

“Shhh Favreau, sleeping!” Lovett says, muffled by Tommy’s arm, and Tommy snorts, feeling quieter, and tired, like he might sleep for a million years. He watches Jon lie down the same way he always does, face first into the pillow, and can feel the warmth from him, even when he’s not touching him. “Go to sleep Tommy,” Lovett murmurs against his arm, and, when he closes his eyes, a deep sleep he hasn’t known in years sweeps over him before he can even think about the morning.

 


End file.
